


Craigjack Horsecock

by guineaDogs



Category: South Park
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bojack Horseman - Freeform, Depression, Drug Use, M/M, Self-Destruction, kyley-b - Freeform, scenes loosely tied together, tags updated as necessary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 07:36:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18220157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineaDogs/pseuds/guineaDogs
Summary: Craigjack knows all too well that money can buy anything he wants in life, except a sense of worth.





	Craigjack Horsecock

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhh so this started as a joke and escalated quickly. check the tags. know this is a bojack au. if you're not familiar with bojack, know this isn't a happy fic.
> 
> also have a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/45O5fEZ05HKGVps1k2fTH3)

My name is Craigjack Horsecock. Most know me from my hit TV series where I starred as a suave gives no fucks guy who stole the hearts of everyone across America. Yeah, it was great. People recognize me everywhere I go, which isn’t exactly what I signed up for, but sometimes they remember one of my earlier roles where I was a kid blowing away in the wind or falling out of the back of a bus. It’s trippy as fuck when they remember that.

But it’s whatever. Like so fucking what, I don’t have a privacy when I go buy alfalfa or cocktraception. I’ve got money. You know what money can do, when you don’t let assholes take it from you? Buy shit. Had a bad day? Booze. Had a really bad day? Klonopin. Life suck a lot and you’re left just wanting to say fuck it all? Hit up this Lamb Skin guy—don’t look at me like that, that’s what’s down in my phone fuck off—anyway, he’s got everything you need. Uppers, downers, shit that makes you feel like you’re splittin’ sideways—

 

* * *

 

“This chapter reads like an acid trip. Weren’t you supposed to be a good writer?” Craigjack threw the manuscript on the bench between them in favor of pilfering through the breast pocket of his jacket for his pack of cigarettes. 

The man beside him made a frustrated groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am.  _ This _ is a transcript, verbatim, of what you said during our interview two weeks ago. This is what you said you wanted.”

“I wanted twenty pages about Adderall and Ambien? Fuck off, Marsh. I said I wanted something that makes me sound good. The hell is cocktraception.”

“Do you not understand the meaning of ‘transcript’?”

Craigjack snorted at the question. It wasn’t one from humor, but rather the bitterness that permeated his entire mindset. Lighting his cigarette, he leaned against the back of the bench and took a long drag. The bench overlooked the bluffs, and with the sun setting over the Pacific as it was now, it gave the feeling of the world coming to an end. Fuck, he wished it did. 

If this wasn’t a view that he saw every day, he might have thought it was beautiful. Instead it was just a sunset. Just the end of another shitty day and the beginnings of a long night that he always attempted to make better. It just didn’t always work that way.

“Craigjack?”

The tone was one that suggested that Marsh had been trying to get his attention. That, or it was just Marsh’s voice. Something whiny and insistent. “What,” he exhaled, carelessly blowing smoke in Stan’s direction, ignoring the way his face scrunched up as he waved the smoke out of his face. 

“I asked you if you’ll give me free reign. If we go with the bullshit you say off the cuff when you’re wasted, it’s going to tank.”

That wasn’t the sort of criticism that Craigjack liked, which he didn’t bother hiding at all with the scowl he gave Stan. “I don’t fucking care, man. I just need it done.” It was the best way to be relevant again, and relevance was how he got more gigs. Whether he wanted a  _ gig _ necessarily was something he was more wishy-washy on than anything. But the money was nice. The attention was nice. 

Anything that distracted him from how shittily he felt about himself was nice.

“‘Kay,” Stan said simply. The sound of shuffling papers filled the silence between them. “I’ll get this done as soon as possible.” 

Craigjack watched Stan’s retreat to his car. It was only when the headlights came on that he bothered to get up and head back home as well. He’d chosen the location for its proximity to his house. It was merely a block away, and though he normally would’ve opted to drive despite the short distance, but today the heat and humidity wasn’t oppressive.

Today his head wasn’t pounding nearly as much as normal. Today the sea breeze actually felt refreshing. The short trek was nice. Except for the fact that said trek was on a rather steep hill and it reminded him that he probably shouldn’t have been smoking nearly as much as he had.

By the time he pushed open his front door he was really feeling it. His heart pounded, the sort he could feel reverberating throughout his entire body, in his ears. Craigjack felt breathless, and the panting must have been particularly loud as it caught the attention of his housemate. 

A mess up unkempt blond moved about in a frenzy, bright eyes peering up at him from the floor in front of the television. “Craigjack!”

“Hey, Tweek.” Craigjack’s tone was as dry as it always was. He didn’t stop his beeline to the kitchen. Specifically to the cabinet by the fridge that held the collection of crystal tumblers he drank out of more often than not. Then again, what did he drink outside of whiskey and water? More booze. He didn’t even drink mixers like orange juice by themselves. It was totally appropriate to have a collection of alcohol-centric glasses.

Right beneath that cabinet, on his marble kitchen countertops, was a wide selection of bottles of varying colors, shapes and sizes. Selecting one blindly, he unscrewed the lid and filled the glass to the rim. A more sophisticated person would have measured it out in shots, or perhaps in fingers. Craigjack didn’t give a fuck and didn’t care that he essentially used the measurement of  _ fist. _ Who was going to judge him, Tweek?

He turned around, leaning against the bar that separated his open-concept kitchen/dining room/living room area. Over the back of the couch, in front of the coffee table, he could see Tweek getting absorbed in more  _ Heroin Hero. _ Yeah, that fucker wasn’t going to judge  _ shit. _

Rounding about the counter, Craigjack settled on his couch. For the fact that it was just him and Tweek living here, it was obscenely large: the sectional wrapped around the living room with deep cushions and a chaise lounge at the end. That was his favorite spot. He could sprawl out and just  _ exist _ . Setting his drink aside momentarily, he sank into the lounge with a contented sigh. “You’ve been doing that all day?”

“Uh.” Tweek glanced around the floor for his phone. “Depends. What time is it?” The phone wasn’t in sight, but catching the darkening twilight skies through the bay windows, he had his answer. “Guess so.”

Ultimately, it wasn’t a question that needed to be asked at all. Craigjack wasn’t surprised by the response; Tweek tended to do little more than sit in front of the television. Well—that wasn’t  _ entirely _ true. Sometimes he was almost competent enough to be sent on errands. But most of the time? It was some variant of this, or occupying himself in a manner that only a trust fund kid who dug a grunge couchsurfing lifestyle could appreciate. 

Tweek gave up on finding his phone and unpaused his game, resuming the never-ending task of chasing the dragon. Silence filled the room for long enough for Craigjack to finish his glass, which ultimately was not a long time; although he wasn’t chugging his elixir, he certainly wasn’t sipping it either. It was easy to allow his thoughts to drift, to block out the obnoxious sounds of Tweek’s game.

“Hey Craigjack.” That pulled him out of his whirling-twirling mental cycle of self-loathing long enough to peer over at his housemate, whose head was tilted back toward him. “Wanna smoke or somethin’, man?”

“Not if it’s that ditch weed you had last time.” 

Tweek scrambled to his feet, seemingly forgetting all about the game in favor of diving onto the couch. With merely a brow arched, Craigjack observed Tweek slip both of his hands between the back of the couch and the cushion he was planted on. A few moments of digging around later and he produced a small baggie. “Nah, man, this is good shit I swear. Look, there’s not even stems in it this time.”

Snatching the baggie, Craigjack observed the herb, gave it a whiff. Admittedly, he was mildly impressed that Tweek managed to score something decent for once. He had a tendency to pay too much for too low quality, and Craigjack could never figure out if Tweek was stupid or just that scared of his dealer. “Alright. I’m game.”   
  


* * *

 

Bright beams of sunlight illuminated his bedroom, forcing him awake far sooner than he wanted to be. Rolling over, he pressed his face into a down pillow and reached blindly for his phone. 1:45. He didn’t have anywhere to be, so it wasn’t a big deal that he slept so late, but he couldn’t shake off the desire to sleep for the rest of eternity.

So why bother getting up?

Wedging his head between two pillows, he clenched his eyes shut and rolled onto his side facing away from the window. He didn’t open them again until the brightness in his room faded to late afternoon, and it was only then that he emerged from his room with a blanket draped over his shoulders.

Grabbing a packet of Poptarts from the pantry en route to the living room, he flopped unceremoniously down on his spot of the couch and immediately reached for the remote. Tweek was not in his field of view, therefore nowhere to be found. The only evidence that remained that he’d been sleeping on the couch was the crumpled blanket at the far end. Craigjack never felt guilty about going about his day, especially with regard to his noise levels, so he felt no shame in turning the volume up loudly. 

How was it that he paid for hundreds of channels and not a goddamn good thing was on? That was a grievance he often had as he flipped through the channels, but as frustrating as it was, calling up his provider was too much effort. Eventually, he settled on a channel and just endured the end of whatever show was on. The credits rolled. Commercial break. Somehow it was only appropriate that what followed was something that was particularly relevant to him.

“On this week’s episode of  _ Where Are They Now? _ we are looking at the cast of  _ Dickin’ Around _ , a popular 90s sitcom,” the host on the television said. Dressed in a rather bland business suit, the host stood primly as a promotional photo from  _ Dickin’ Around _ appeared on the screen beside her. He should have just changed the channel, but here he was, indulging in this far too much.

The foil wrapper of his Poptarts crinkled, but he barely heard it, barely registered the crumbs piling on his chest as his eyes remained glued on the television. “—Craigjack Horsecock, who of course played the lovable Terry to young Kyle Broflovski’s eponymous character.” The following moments of exposition detailed the plot to _ Dickin’ Around _ , as if anyone in the country— _ neigh _ , the world—could possibly exist without knowing anything about show. Perhaps it wasn’t as relevant now, but its influence still existed in the cultural zeitgeist. 

During the subsequent commercial break, his front door opened. Craigjack expected to see Tweek cross that threshold, but instead it was Stan Marsh. Scowling, he threw him a sideways glance. “What, you’re just going to start barging into my house now?”

“You gave me a key.” 

When was this and how fucked up was he? There was no point in asking. He didn’t want to know, and if it happened under those circumstances, it really didn’t surprise him. Few things did. He observed Stan settle on the far side of the couch, and as soon as the show resumed, his attention fell back to the television.

The next bit focused on his career. On the small roles he’d taken before  _ Dickin’ Around. _ About how the following show he was on didn’t air more than the pilot. About how so much of what he’d done was so goddamn mediocre like this was a Comedy Central Roast rather than an A&E documentary. 

“You’re watching a documentary...about yourself. Weak, dude.”

“Shut up, Marsh. Why are you even here?”

Stan didn’t answer, which was annoying in and of itself, but then the host had to take the show in yet another uncomfortable direction. He should have just changed the channel. It would have been effortless. The remote was right there beside him. He was literally one button away from saving himself from this trip down memory lane, but it was too much of a trainwreck.

“—both were scouted and hired by writer and producer Kenneth McCormick. McCormick’s claim to fame prior to  _ Dickin’ Around _ was a short-lived variety show,  _ Culebra Town _ . Unfortunately, since  _ Dickin’ Around _ ’s cancellation in 1999, McCormick has not—”

Craigjack dragged a hand down his face and tried to keep the sudden nausea he felt at bay.

He barely noticed Stan moving until he saw Stan’s hand on the remote, turning the television off. In any other situation, that would have been more than enough to throw Stan out, but Craigjack was far too consumed with this awful feeling that arose any time Kenny was mentioned.

“I read an article about him the other day.”

Craigjack’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Kenneth McCormick.” Bright blue eyes were on him. Craigjack could feel them burning into him and he  _ hated it. _ “About his—you know.”

“No. I  _ don’t _ know,” he spat. “What are you talking about?”

Stan’s mouth opened and stayed that way. He looked so stupid. “His PR rep released a statement. He’s really sick, dude.”

That just made him feel  _ worse _ , and even if he were the sort to share that sort of thing with Stan, or anyone, he couldn’t, because he could hardly process it for himself. There was only one way he knew how to handle this. “Was there a reason you came over here, or did you just want to be a pain in the ass?”

Stan shook his head. “Mr. Buttersbutter has a film crew over right now. I was hoping to use your wifi and work on the manuscript.”

“Whatever,” Craigjack muttered. He got to his feet and dusted the crumbs off his chest as he stalked back to his bedroom. He’d already had it with this day.   
  


* * *

 

If you liked having your face covered in cocaine on a Tuesday night while chugging imported Club-Mate, x. Eaglet was the place for you. It had everything: a cum-crusted couch, flamingo flamenco dancers, and questionable hip-level holes in the walls. The core demographic also happened to be ‘barely able to drink legally to it’s still reasonable to card,’ and then there was Craigjack, who, were it not for his notoriety, wouldn’t have had a reason to be carded in decades.

He stuck out like a sore thumb; but it was such a common thing for him that he thought nothing of tucking himself against the bar nursing a passenger pigeon—or whatever the fuck this drink was supposed to be. Craigjack had simply ordered something off the starkly designed menu because  _ of course _ this was the sort of joint that insisted you had to pick from the list. But it was boozy and that was the only thing he cared about.

The fourth, fifth, sixth drink went down the hatch, settling in the pit of his stomach, warming him from the inside out. He almost felt normal. Perhaps it wasn’t normal for everyone else, but it was normal for  _ him _ . That numb feeling that encompassed everything, that overtook anything and everything. Maybe it made him quicker to anger, made his tongue looser, made him more inclined to indulge his id. But there were good sides to it. Like how the pain in his back was gone, and in combination with a handful of whatever wound up in the brown plastic bottle in his pocket, the booze made him feel weightless. Like his arms were floating, his limbs just somehow taking him wherever he needed to go. 

Which in this case was to the bathroom to take a leak.

The lights in the club were bleary in the corners of his eyes, the carpeting of the floor was as such that it seemed like it was all spinning beneath him. But it didn’t impede his ability to walk about, not when he used horse tranqs to sleep on occasion. 

Upon his return to the bar, a commotion on the other side of the room caught his attention. A large group of people siphoned off to surround a table. The chanting of  _ muff cabbage, muff cabbage, muff cabbage! _

The bartender must have caught the way he looked over his shoulder at the crowd, as the man felt inclined to fill the role of the sage minor character who held information important to the narrative of the story. “Kyley-B frequents here. Dunno what muff cabbage is supposed to mean, but his fans sure do like chanting it. Say—you know Kyley, don’t you? Wasn’t he on  _ Dickin’ Around _ too?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Craigjack answered absentmindedly.

“What’s he like? Y’all still keep in touch?”

Craigjack ignored the question in favor of downing the rest of his drink. He lost count of how many drinks he’d had, but as he got to his feet again, he found that he could stay upright, so that was good enough. After retrieving a wad of bills from his wallet and tossing them onto the counter, he headed toward the exit. He hadn’t seen Kyley in over a decade, and he had no intention of rectifying that now. 

It was entirely his luck though, that the young man standing on a table, bellowing  _ muff cabbage _ and pelting everyone around him in champagne saw him. “Craigjack!”

_ God fucking damnit.  _

The exit was just a few yards away, and left with the options of waiting for Kyley to jump off the table and make his way over and continuing to the exit, Craigjack opted for the latter. He almost made it to his parallel parked car when he heard that same voice, the sound of quickly approaching footsteps.

“Craigjack!” Kyley stopped just a few feet away, and as he continued talking, Craigjack was resigned to the fact that he was going to have to engage in some kind of conversation with Kyley. Of all the things he wanted to do, throwing himself off a cliff was fifty places higher than engaging in an unwanted conversation with someone from his past. “It was kinda loud in there, guess ya didn’t hear me?”

“I heard you.” Craigjack didn’t want his time wasted with this, didn’t spare Kyley a glance. Instead his focus was entirely on getting his car unlocked.  _ Where’s the fucking fob? _ A brief pat down of his pockets enabled him to find his keys, but the fob wasn’t there. Even in his inebriated state, he had the sense to assume that it probably fell off somewhere. Hopefully his house. Maybe not, but he couldn’t bring himself to give a single flying  _ fuck _ about that right now. 

The key would work just as fine, so he tried to get it in the keyhole on the car door despite the poor lighting in this particular spot. The sound of metal scratching against metal made him wince. That was his moment of clarity: he’d have to text Tweek to drive him home. It was late, but it wasn’t like Tweek did anything with his life.

It just sucked, because after he sent off a text to Tweek, Kyley was still there. Talking animatedly. There was no reason that Kyley would  _ really _ want to be talking to him at all, much less with that tone. Craigjack had to wonder just what he was on, and how accessible it was.

Only then did he lean against his car and really look at Kyley. He was so full of energy that he almost looked like he was  _ vibrating _ . He was also close. Close enough that Craigjack got a whiff of the beer he’d been drinking and that skunky stench that informed anyone within his vicinity just what he’d been smoking. Even in the poor lighting he could see how glassy Kyley’s eyes were. In combination with the messy bun he had his hair tied into and the scumbro attire he wore, Kyley was really looking like the guido trash he’d rebranded himself with.

And he was still talking.

“—haven’t seen you since  _ Dickin’ Around _ , man, s’like so cool that you’re like,  _ here. _ ” Kyley was closer, throwing his arms around Craigjack, embracing him as if they were long-lost friends rather than estranged coworkers who had a tumultuous relationship. Craigjack was also under no illusions; he knew he’d been a dick to Kyley back then. Just like he was to everyone else.

So to have  _ Kyley _ of all people hugging him, warm and tight, when he couldn’t remember the last time anyone outside of a random hookup touched him at all—it was jarring. Maybe it was nice. He wasn’t sure, but he returned the embrace loosely all the same. “What are even on right now?”

Kyley didn’t answer, but Craigjack had his suspicions and didn’t expect a real answer anyway. Instead, there was boisterous laughter and as he pulled away, cold fingertips tracing along the sides of his face, lingering where Craigjack knew he had crow’s feet. “You’ve gotten old.”

Craigjack’s mouth went dry as he peered down into those vibrant-but-glassy eyes, those high cheekbones. He swallowed thickly. “You got hot. I mean, you look hot. Temperature-wise. You’re sweating.” 

“Oh. I guess so. Listen, there’s this party—”

Craigjack didn’t make wise decisions. That was true throughout most of his life. In that moment, he had the self-awareness. He cut Kyley off. “Another time. I gotta go.” Fuck this, fuck Tweek and his inability to be here when Craigjack needed him to be. 

Kyley was too out of his mind to be phased. Instead he dug a sharpie out of his pocket and took Craigjack’s wrist, tugging his arm outward so there was plenty of space for him to jot his number down. “Text me sometime, dude. We can like. Party or somethin.’”

“Totally,” Craigjack agreed, knowing full well he likely wasn’t going to reach out at all.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave me feedback! also hmu any time on tumblr @ thaumatroping. if you're 18+ and are interested in hanging out in my discord server, lmk as well and i'll send you a link!


End file.
